Tag: police

When we arrived, Jack Olson was lying in a pool of blood on Carl Jacobsen’s study floor. The wall behind him, including the white frames around the broken window, was a mess, sprayed with dark red bits and blobs of Jack. He looked surprised at being dead. Carl looked angry at having killed him. Detective Jonasson sent me outside to look around.

There were no flowerbeds back here, and the grass was so dry from the summer heat that it crackled underfoot. Hoppers leaped around me as I sweated in the shade from a shagbark hickory.… Read the rest

“God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;” — William Cowper

Eli and Vernon Browbridge rolled The Fat Man’s bloated body from the trunk of their 1987 Pontiac Grand Prix into the hole in the ground they had just dug.

Eli spoke first. “I wonder if a dead fat guy smells worse than a thin broad that’s been roasting in a hot car trunk?” He grabbed a dirty handkerchief from his back pocket, blew his nose and wiped the sweat from his face. Dirt and snot streaked his cheek.

I remember everything about that night: the truth, the terror, the luck, and the lies. Someday I want to forget.

As always, Larry’s Tavern was dark and dank as a moldy cellar. A woman sitting at one end of the bar had hiccups. A leathery, trailer park grandma in a frizzy red sweater, she kept herself company with big gulps of bourbon and ginger ale. A stocky boomer guy slumped at the other end of the bar, wearing a gaudy blue golf shirt with a shiny brown sport coat.… Read the rest

The greatest detectives have always had their particular methods and tools.

Perhaps you, too, have heard of the legendary Arabian trackers and detectives of the past. It was in 1952 that I happened to observe one such detective in action with all the tools of his trade which, by the way, were comprised of instinct, common sense, acute observation, knowledge of people and places, and, oh yes, a piece of string.

It was my second year in Kuwait, working as a journalist. I lived alone in a big house near an old market place, or ‘souk’ as it is known, with roofed alleys, where you could buy almost anything you wanted, from spices to the highest quality Persian rugs.… Read the rest

A high-profile murder case. A hot-shot cop on the rise. The wrong kind of killer.

“It’s strange. Sitting here is all strange. I suppose I should say I never thought I would get caught, but everyone who says that is caught. Still, I would have thought Internal Affairs would have more important things to do: I gave the press what they wanted. I was already a hero before that case. I suppose sleeping with Shapiro’s wife started your investigation, eh? No, no, don’t bother to answer. It’s not as if you people investigate yourselves.